


these memories of ours will never fade

by nightstreak1239



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Fluffy, Lys and Cyril have two kids and they're cute as hell, One Big Happy Family, Romance, Romantic Fluff, light spoilers for Lysithea's background, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-03 00:08:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21170159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightstreak1239/pseuds/nightstreak1239
Summary: Lysithea returns to Garreg Mach monastery after several years with two children in tow. Reminiscence and storytime of the days she spent with Cyril ensue.Cyril birthday drabble that ended up being 3k, whoops.





	these memories of ours will never fade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [renfuros](https://archiveofourown.org/users/renfuros/gifts).

> The fankids mentioned here are actually characters made by the awesome renfuros(on twitter and ao3)! Thanks for giving me the ideas and helpful notes, I had a blast writing this. Hope you enjoy!

Years ago, they'd fought here as classmates. Studied under the same halls, the same Professor Byleth. Back then, the monastery's vastness had seemed intimidating, full of wrong turns and misleading exits, ever eager to lead her younger self astray, much to her then-frustration. Now, however, it is a second home, as familiar to her as the back of her own hand, she can walk through the dormitories and know by heart which of the rooms the Golden Deer had once occupied, without even opening the doors. She's been putting off this return visit for far too long, she muses, but she'd had good reason to do so, one of those reasons being the young girl of 15 standing beside her.

The concept of children and having a family had once been a fairytale dream to her - meet her Romeo, settle down with three kids and one cat. Yet all that had changed when those who slithered in the dark had stolen away precious years of her life, and she could no longer afford the luxury of time. It had been Cyril who'd made it possible for this living miracle to happen, Cyril who had poured years of effort into finding a way to remove her crests, Cyril who had lavished her with nothing but the utmost care the moment they'd found out she was carrying his child. Nasrin was their miracle, a bubbly young girl with all the curiosity in the world and the energy to explore it. 15 years down the road, and that much hadn't changed - it had been her curiosity about the place where her parents had met that had driven Nasrin to enroll at the Officer's Academy as well, at the same age Lysithea herself had been when she'd first joined.

A tug at her sleeve prompts her to glance down, where 12-year old Kourosh stands. Where Nasrin is outspoken and exuberant, Kourosh is more sensitive, keenly attuned to the emotions of those around him.

"Mama? Why are you smiling? You only ever smile like that when Papa's around."

Nasrin ruffles his hair affectionately. "Silly, this is where Mama and Papa met!" Her gaze shoots to Lysithea's, eyes twinkling with an almost mischievous light. "I bet she could tell us loads of stories about their younger days here. Isn't that right, Mama?"

She laughs at that. Nasrin's always known how to get her brother on board with things, and this is no exception. Already Kourosh is hopping up and down with excitement, begging her to "do tell, please", while Nasrin is hanging onto her every word. Who is she to resist them if they're asking so nicely, and while they're here, she may as well show them a better place for a storytime session.

"This way, then" she replies, whisking them off to where her former room awaits. She'd requested that it be left vacant, for somewhat selfish purposes, but now she's quite thankful she did, considering Nasrin will most likely be the next occupant. For most part, Byleth has kept true to their word and left the room be, save for some routine housecleaning here and there to keep it free of dust. Her old books are still stacked upon the desk somewhat haphazardly, reams of paper still neatly rolled up and held down by a cat-shaped paperweight. Even her old quill and ink set is still there, though doubtless the ink has dried over the years, the white owl feather quill looking no less worse for wear than it had been years ago, as ink-stained as it was. Her bedsheets have been changed regularly in her absence and no longer quite smell the same, but that's alright. What few knickknacks she had kept in her drawers had either been lost or destroyed in the war, all save for the carved wooden doll that she'd always made sure remained safely nestled amongst her possessions.

Nasrin, inquisitive as always, is leafing through some of the loose papers on the desk, while Kourosh appears content to perch on the neatly made bed and pet the armored bear stuffy that sits beside the pillow. She'd brought them here to tell them stories, but where does one begin, when so many of their encounters had taken place in this very room?

In the end, it is Nasrin who starts off for them, in the form of a question.

"Mama? Why's the handwriting on this so different compared to yours?" Her nose wrinkles slightly as she holds up a letter, the edges faded and worn with time. The familiar scrawl is enough to bring a warm smile to her face as she plucks the letter from her daughter's hands and smooths out the paper, gesturing for Nasrin to take a seat beside her on the bed.

"That's your Papa's handwriting. This was his first letter to me. Before that, he didn't know how to read or write, so I taught him how to, and one day he left this in my room."

_"Dear Lysithea, I read the book you gave me._   
_It was hard. And it got more easy more I tried it. And it was fun. And I learned new stuff._   
_Thanks you for helping me to read and to write. Somethings are hard to say and easy to write. I want to read more and learn writing better. I am glad you are my friend. It makes me bappy."_

_He'd actually done it. One hand flew to her mouth in astonishment as she reread the contents of the letter again. She'd never known anyone who'd proved to be as quick a study as he was, especially with something he'd had no prior knowledge about. To think that he had likely sat down for an hour or so, painstakingly etching out every letter onto paper just for her sake..._

_A knock had sounded at her door, only for it to be the very person she'd just been thinking of. Impulsively, she'd taken a step forward - to hug him? plant a kiss on his cheek? on the lips, perhaps? - though she'd caught herself soon enough. This wasn't the time for that, she had no time for love or other affairs of the heart. She'd simply have to make do with his friendship and what little time left they had together, before her years came to a close._

_Oh, why hadn't she confessed back then? She'd known just as surely as the sun sets every day, that she was well and truly in love with him. It had crept up on her despite valiant attempts to brush it off as mere friendliness, the need for more time with him, to understand him as deeply as she understood herself. There had always been those 'accidental' brushes of hand against hand, her leaning over him to correct his spelling, or the way she'd catch him staring while she read something aloud to him._

_Perhaps they'd both always known, in hindsight._

Yes, the handwriting had been crude, at best, the grammar subpar. Yet she wouldn't have traded this letter for the finest literature texts in the world. Back then, she'd been incapable of properly expressing her feelings, and he hadn't quite gotten the message either when she'd tried - not that she'd ever blame him for that, considering all she'd actually managed was a few incomplete sentences and calling him "sweet". It had taken them five long years to ever face each other and declare "I love you", and though the wait had been bittersweet, it is entirely worth the future she shares with him now.

Kourosh peers at the letter, visibly struggling to make out the words amidst his father's sloppy penmanship. "Is that...bappy?" he echoes, clearly bewildered at the word and wondering if it's something he's just never learnt before. Nasrin snickers in response, which earns her a playful nudge in the ribs from her mother. "He was trying his best, and this was plenty coming from someone who had been illiterate until then," she reminds them, though there is no trace of sternness to be found in her voice, only love.

The letter is folded and carefully tucked into her pocket for safekeeping, much to her children's disappointment. "You can ask Papa to write for you when you see him next," she promises, this seems to placate them somewhat. Strange to think that this letter has been lying on her desk for all these years, untouched since the very day she'd opened it.

There are countless other tales she could tell them - of the times he'd brought her tea and cake in the middle of the night, knowing full well she'd be staying up late to study. The time she'd come down with a cold, and he'd been the one to sit by her bedside and coax her into getting some proper rest instead of working. The first time she'd kissed him, right in the middle of this very room, when the war had ended and they'd slipped away from the rowdy celebratory feast going on in the dining hall. These, however, are memories that are far too private to share - for now, at least, they make up the sum total of the time she'd realised she was in love with him, but had never dared to admit it. These memories that made those days sublime will forever be theirs to keep, till death do them part.

"That's about all there is to see here," she remarks, getting up and holding out her hands to both children - Kourosh gladly slides his hand into hers, while Nasrin protests with "you don't have to do that, I'm old enough already!"

As if they will ever stop being her children, no matter how old they grow.

After spending most of the day inside the monastery's sheltered areas, the sunlight is almost blindingly dazzling to look at once they step outside. Lysithea squints through the brightness as best as she can manage, ever grateful for the momentary reprieve as a winged shadow passes over them - a wyvern rider, come to deliver a message to the new archbishop most likely. Despite the sun, however, Kourosh is staring in open-mouthed wonder at the receding silhouette of the flier - perhaps he has his father's eyesight despite the matching shade of lilac of their eyes.

Perhaps somewhere with a bit more shade would be best, she decides, chivvying them towards the stables where the wyverns are kept, seeing as Kourosh appears rather fascinated with the reptilian beasts. Here, at least, there is some sanctuary to be had, although she is careful to keep them both a safe distance away from the stabled wyverns - it never hurts to be cautious, for wyverns are a fickle species and sometimes far too unpredictable for her liking.

"Did I ever tell you about the times your father took me flying on wyvernback?" she begins, settling back against the wall of the stables.

"Tell them about the time I did what, Lysithea?"

The moment she turns he is there, all sun-kissed bronze and warm smiles, the light of her life waltzing back in as effortlessly as he soars the skies. Both children leap up with delighted shouts and dash to meet their father mid-way, throwing themselves into his arms even as he catches hold of them to swing them around in a tight hug. Cyril releases them a second later, striding over to greet his wife with a friendly kiss - Kourosh clapping his hands over his eyes like the child he is. That is all it takes for her to melt, before Nasrin is bouncing on her toes beside them and attempting to squeeze into the hug he's wrapped her in.

"So that rider we just saw up there was Papa, wasn't it?" Kourosh pipes up, having removed his hands from his face, though his cheeks are flushed a noticeable pink. Cyril chuckles, reaching down to pat him on the head before standing back up again. "I came because Archbishop Byleth told me you would be returning here, thought you could use a ride back home. I didn't expect you to bring the kids along, though." Not that he minds, if the way he looks at their offspring is any indication of his affection for them.

"Papa! Mama said you took her flying on a wyvern?"

"Yeah, would you believe she was clinging to me the entire time?"

"Shut up! I'd never been on a wyvern before that, of course I was nervous."

He pokes her cheek teasingly, glancing over at their children with a cheeky grin. "That's what she said the first time I took her for a ride," he stage-whispers, eliciting a round of laughter from the other two even as he gathers them close. Her only response is a half-exasperated roll of her eyes.

_"Are you absolutely sure this is safe?"_

_"Course it is. Byleth trained me themself. Seteth too." He finished adjusting the various necessary straps on the saddle, before walking back to where she stood eyeing the great beast somewhat warily. It had been good flying weather that day, or so he'd assured her, with nothing but tranquil skies and breezy winds ahead. Cyril crouched at her feet, hands laced together to form a makeshift footstool. "Here, you can get on this way," he added, directing his gaze away with a blush even as she tentatively raised one foot and climbed up onto the wyvern's back with his assistance. He followed shortly after, grabbing hold of the reins and directing their mount to take flight._

_Even now she could still see it in her mind's eye - the clear azure skies, the cottoncandy clouds drifting so far above the verdant canopy of trees, the way Garreg Mach monastery appeared comically small beneath them, its inhabitants nothing more than indistinguishable black specks on the ground. Her arms wrapped around him, leaning forward into his comforting warmth amidst the chill of the wind, had he been able to feel her racing heartbeat then?_

_The skies were Cyril's second home, and the way his expression seemed to lighten once they were in the air was proof of that. Frightening at first, but once you stopped looking down, she could understand why he loved it so much - this was freedom incarnate, a visual reminder that whoever you were in the world, you would always be under the same skies as the ones you held dear. If he loved it so much, perhaps there truly was some merit to it, she reflected, settling comfortably against his back._

_She'd attribute the flush on her cheeks to the wind later on, when asked._

"-and that was how I got your mother to love flying with me." Cyril concludes, flashing her an impish grin.

"Please, it was just an excuse for you to have me wrap my arms around you, wasn't it?"

"Says the one who was hugging me to death the first time we flew out," he shoots back, and there's nothing she can deny about that - as breathtaking as the open skies are, something about its vastness still terrifies her to some extent even now. If it's with Cyril, however, she's more than willing to accept that risk, if it means spending precious time with him alone - a now-scarce commodity with the arrival of their two children. Nasrin giggles at that, even Kourosh is glassy-eyed with wonder at the recollection, peppering his father with questions like "how fast did you go?" or "how high up were you?" This one, she believes, will follow in his father's footsteps someday, while his sister is already showing signs of interest in the arcane arts.

Nasrin's question, however, interrupts her from her dreamy reverie.

"Mama? When did you and Papa fall in love with each other?"

Lysithea can only smile at that. Perhaps at this age, Nasrin still believes in the love proclaimed far and wide in the storybooks she always used to read to her - a magical force of attraction, a mysterious compelling of two souls to join as one, or something that one character was always struck with at first sight.

Back then, Lysithea had considered such descriptions awfully romantic, had fallen asleep with book clutched to chest and dreamed of one day feeling for someone the way these fictional two-dimensional characters felt for each other.

Growing up, however, she's come to realize that there is another way to fall in love that the books never describe. Slow, bittersweet with both heartache and purest adoration, born out of a close and trusting relationship that had existed long before either of them had ever realized they were in love. This love is painful, crushing in its weight for all the times Cyril denied wanting any form of relationship save for Rhea's benefit, all the times she had looked on from afar in melancholic hopes and told herself this was something she should never have, for it would only ruin them both.

Yet here they stand, two idiots in love, and now with two miniature little idiots of their own - even as they continue to grow and mature with what feels like every turn of her head. To her, love has never been a sudden realization, neither has it ever been particularly embodied in one specific moment. Love is in their daily lives, the way they interact with each other, even back when they'd been young and naive, seeking it the only way they knew how.

"We've always been in love. We just never realized it." It is Cyril who answers for her, his smile as broad and bright as the sunrise itself, a sight that warms her heart and will never fail to do so every time she sees it. He steps closer to press a lingering kiss to her forehead, just the way he always does at night before bed, as she turns back to Nasrin and Kourosh with a half-amused, half-tender expression - they've seen this often enough to know what it means.

**"He may be an idiot, but he's my idiot."**


End file.
